Boys who like girls who like girls who like boys? Dorothy Black’s all about fluid sexuality…
I kissed my first girl when I was 18. Well, like most kids, I did my own measure of fooling around with my friends when I was younger, but up until then I hadn’t actually kissed a girl like I would kiss a guy.
It was Skinny Puppy’s birthday party at his parents’ house. It was the arse end of winter, but we were outside because we were Goths and could handle it. And his mom didn’t want us smoking in the house.
It had all been quite pleasant until I found myself trapped in a monologue with Randall (a greasy nut job I had tried to ignore since the beginning of term) as he expounded for an hour on how much he enjoyed the translucent quality of red heads’ pubes (I’m brunette). Just as I was about to put my cigarette out in his eye, a friend of mine sidled up to me to whisper that I had acquired an admirer.
Said admirer was doe-eyed Nicolette, a pretty, waifish girl that I had met only that night. Her attentions would’ve been very flattering if it weren’t for the fact that she fell in love with a new person every few days. Nevertheless, one flirt led to another and before I could think about it properly, we were kissing. And proceeded to do so for the rest of the evening. It was fab. It was fun. It lasted a week.
Her attentions would’ve been very flattering if it weren’t for the fact that she fell in love with a new person every few days
This all came back to mind the other day when I bumped into a potbellied Randall walking hand in hand with his (very red-haired) girlfriend.
We were politely chatting about the past when he suggested that since I had clearly displayed ‘lesbo’ tendencies when we were younger, he would like to suggest a little threesome with him and his girlfriend and me, because, you know, a little ‘girl-on-girl action is always such a turn on’.
His girlfriend cringed with embarrassment and I vomited a little in my mouth. The thought of getting anywhere near naked with him turned my stomach.
But there was something else I found deeply disturbing. He had made the same tired assumption that drives a sizeable portion of media aimed at men – that ‘girl-on-girl action’ is purely there as prop in the one-man show, My Penis and the Women That Love It.
Since my short-lived tryst with the lovely Nicolette I have kissed many, many women and slept with one very beautiful friend. And – surprise, surprise – none of it was for the pleasure of a man.
I told Randall as much and he, aghast, clearly disgusted by my homo ways and oblivious to the irony of his reaction, trotted off with girlfriend in hand to the nearest bar for, I’m sure, a dubble branny en coke. He’s just that kinda guy.
He had made the same tired assumption that drives a sizeable portion of media aimed at men – that ‘girl-on-girl action’ is purely there as prop in the one-man show, My Penis and the Women That Love It
It made me wonder why people are still so freaked out by the concept of fluid sexuality, that enjoyment of a person can spill over into the physical regardless of the labels we attach to ourselves. But then, how can you accept that nuanced emotional trippiness if you can’t even accept the very fundamental physical attraction and love someone can feel to a person of the same sex.
I lived with a woman once that saw homosexuality as a sort of deviancy from which people can be cured through prayer. She falls into the same category of person that claims ‘retraining’ camps or eating the eye of a newt will undo the evil affliction that is gayness. To me, that’s right up there with ‘corrective’ rape. (Because you know, all a lesbo needs is the love of a good man. As for gays? Well, they just need a good beating.)
Randall is the worst I’ve had to face. But my gay friends still have to deal with a lot of shit – from finger pointing to random sermons from strangers in malls, to inherited shame and being disowned by their families. All because they happen to find a person of the same sex desirable. It’s weird.
Anne Heche once said, in reference to her bisexuality, that she falls in love with the inside of the person, not what’s on the outside. And while I prefer my partner’s outside to sport a penis, I’m sure glad I’m not directly surrounded by Randalls if I should ever change my mind.
Do you agree with Dorothy?